


1000 lonely stars hiding in the cold

by ghiblitears



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Rivals to Lovers, and some platonic klance, but you can't give me two sharpshooters and not expect me to ship them, if you know me you know this'll end with fluff, now featuring some whump, presumably no, will i ever stop acquiring rarepairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-06-29 06:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15723480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghiblitears/pseuds/ghiblitears
Summary: “Twenty-six” is not a greeting by any standards, but it’s the first thing out of McClain’s mouth upon seeing him at the rendezvous point. Ryan watches his rifle dematerialize in his hands until it becomes a short, U-shaped handle. A ‘bayard’, he’d called it several weeks ago at the shooting range. It’s about as cool an alien weapon as you can get, it seems, materializing from nothing into a gun or sniper rifle at McClain’s beck and call.He shouldn’t have started counting the shots. That’s what spoke this rivalry into existence.(Or; what begins as a kind of competition between Lance and Kinkade develops into a sort of friendship. For now, at least.)





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I'm glad this pairing is starting to blow up. THEY'RE SO CUTE. The potential for a really sweet relationship is right there and I'm ready to rub all over it with my little rat hands.

There’s no training deck in the Garrison’s facilities — not like onboard the castle (duh) — but they do have sims and a shooting range, implemented specifically for the pilots to keep their skills sharp. And although it makes more sense to train in Red, Lance makes an effort to stay on top of the sims, too. Time has continually proven that there could be a sudden switch-up; in the middle of an alien war, in a game of galactic chess where the rules keep changing, there are few constants. But the sims are usually occupied by a pair of stubborn pilots who still butt heads over scores and maneuvers, and it’s gotten to the point where Lance leaves as soon as he sees either Officer Griffin or Keith gunning for the consoles. One is almost guaranteed to be on the heels of the other, he’s learned.

 

That leaves him mostly in the shooting range. And in said shooting range there’s Officer Kinkade; a constant presence, a fellow gunner, matching him shot for shot and bulls-eye for bulls-eye.

 

It infuriates him.

 

The one thing he’d been good at, _really_ good at, and it’s a trait he now has to share. Their skills are both exceptional, a matched pair of snipers watching the targets with keen eyes and levelled stares. Lance McClain was top of his class in marksmanship, thank you for asking, but Kinkade makes a name for himself as his equal.

 

Naturally, this leads them to getting paired off on missions. And although they don’t cross swords the way that the Black Paladin and the leader of the MFE squadron do, they develop something else.

 

They’re sent off with a team of rebels and the Green Lion to start extraction missions, once the Empire’s grip on Planet Earth starts to slip. Sendak being killed and his Zyforge cannons being nuked means the work camps are largely left vulnerable, making liberation that much easier. The Garrison sticks the pair of snipers in abandoned buildings and connects them through a private comms channel before the rest of the team rushes in for victory.

 

That’s a lot of sitting and waiting, until shit hits the fan and the sentries start swarming. That’s when the snipers come in, and when he makes every shot count.

 

That’s when things start in earnest.

 

On the heels of their first extraction, rendezvous’d in Green, Lance pulls his helmet off and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. He grimaces — a shower is definitely in order after a firefight like that. He takes a spot next to Pidge at the helm, watches her upload the data from the work camp’s database into the Garrison’s drives. Their rescues are loaded into Green and several Garrison transports, ready to head back to base.

 

“Man, I must have picked off at least thirty sentries. There’re tons of ‘em, but as soon as you hit them in the right spot they go over like paper people.” He glances over his shoulder to Kinkade, just the littlest bit smug. That’s his first mistake.

 

“What about you, Kinkade? Sounded a little quiet on your end.” He taps the comms earpiece twice, two slight raps to the electronic wired into his helmet. “Guess the sentries considered me a bigger threat.”

 

Kinkade pulls off his own helmet. He shoulders his rifle as his eyes meet Lance’s, one eyebrow raised in what could be judgement. With how stoic he is, it’s hard to read sometimes.

 

Then his mouth quirks up in a handsome half-smile. “Thirty-two. I counted.”

 

And then he steps away, out of the cockpit and into the Green Lion’s cargo bay, leaving him in the dust.

 

In the silence that follows, Pidge completes their rescue op by launching Green into gear. The transports follow without preamble, already prepared to make their way back to the Garrison.

 

Lance had called his relationship with Keith a rivalry. An oversight, on his part, when his real rival had shown up years later in a flashy fighter jet and given him the cold shoulder ever since.

 

Until now.

 

In that moment, Lance picks his jaw off the floor, sets it, and decides this is how they’re going to operate.

 

***

 

To his knowledge, Ryan Kinkade has done nothing to antagonize Lance McClain. Nothing except exist, apparently, and possess a vaguely similar skill set. When exactly those things had become valid grounds for a rivalry, he didn’t know.

 

It doesn’t matter, really. They have a mission to complete that goes way beyond this, but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t still bother him. And on some superficial level, maybe he’s a little jealous. The MFEs had been the biggest thing in the resistance for four years until a squad of former cadets — okay, _Paladins_ , he mentally corrects — had dropped out of the sky and promised to fix all their problems.

 

And yeah, they kind of had. Sendak’s elimination had taken a weight off their shoulders. But now they were a team, dammit, and should be above this kind of thing.

 

The other part of him kind of just enjoys pushing McClain’s buttons.

 

Ryan stares down the scope of his rifle. He has the drones’ small dropoff ship in his sights, and since fighting has already broken out at the Galra facility, they can finally engage.

 

About time. Ryan lands a pair of shots in the ship’s glowing engines, sending it crashing to the ground in a satisfying, explosive way.

 

The comms crackle. “That still only counts as one,” McClain says in his ear, low and irritated.

 

Ryan says nothing, just allows himself a moment of smugness. He can already picture the appearance of the line between McClain’s brows that indicates frustration, can almost see the way his eyes will narrow down the sights of his strange, alien gun. Despite maybe trading a full five sentences between the two of them (thanks, social anxiety), Ryan feels like he knows McClain fairly well by now.

 

“There were at least six drones in that ship,” he replies. Another sentry falls to his deadeye shot.

 

“Doesn’t matter. One ship is one ship.” A sentry in his sights takes a blast of blue energy and shorts out, violet eyepiece dimming as it dies. He’s grudgingly impressed. For all his blister and bravado, McClain actually is a good shot.

 

The mission ends successful and they regroup with the rescue team at the Green Lion. Ryan still kind of can’t get over the design of Voltron’s five combining ships. Cats? _Really_? Why that design? Why do aliens know of the existence of cats, of all things? No one’s ever cared to elaborate on that.

 

He’s never asked, though. Maybe that’s why the answer eludes him.

 

“Twenty-six” is not a greeting by any standards, but it’s the first thing out of McClain’s mouth upon seeing him at the rendezvous point. Ryan watches his rifle dematerialize in his hands until it becomes a short, U-shaped handle. A ‘bayard’, he’d called it several weeks ago at the shooting range. It’s about as cool an alien weapon as you can get, it seems, materializing from nothing into a gun or sniper rifle at McClain’s beck and call.

 

He shouldn’t have started counting the shots. That’s what spoke this rivalry into existence.

 

Despite that, he still responds with his own score; “Twenty-eight,” he says.

 

McClain shakes his head. “That ship counted as one. Nice try, though.” He brushes past on his way to the lion ship, clapping Ryan’s shoulder as he moves away.

 

The touch, light and casual as it is, lingers. Ryan doesn’t care to know why.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance gets a second opinion; Ryan gets a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, fluff!  
> *throws cup of mysterious powder into mixing bowl labeled RYANCE FIC*  
> Oh god, that's whump. I'm an idiot. They seem so similar in my mind.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy an update that definitely didn't take two months! I still love these two, I just have a lot on my plate and I wanna do them justice.  
> <3

Sometimes Lance forgets he has a sword. That’s why he steals Keith away from the Blades or the sims (whichever he’s currently occupied with) and takes over the training room at least once a week to practice – because, frankly, this is getting silly. He thrives as a sniper but he’s a little sick of taking on enemies at close range with his rifle when he has another perfectly serviceable weapon at hand. There’s also the fact that the sword just looks awesome; knowing how to use it properly would definitely give him some points in the Coolness category.

That, and at least this way he knows he can’t compare himself to Keith, who he figures was probably born with a knife in his hand. To get on the same level as his fearless Team Leader he’ll probably have to practice every day for twenty-one years. It’s a truth that’s easier to stomach over, say, comparing himself to  _someone else_  in the Garrison who happens to have the same skill set as him.

“So, I’ve been thinking; we don’t even know what our bayards are made of. Isn’t that weird? I mean, you can hit two of them together and it sounds like metal, but if you really think about it—“

A solid hit from the flat of a blade sends Lance’s bayard flying mid-sentence. It clatters to the floor several feet away and dematerializes, the red Altean broadsword shrinking until it becomes a U-shaped handle again.

“Hey!” he yelps.

Keith steps back and sheathes his own bayard. “Focus, Lance. Your swordplay isn’t gonna get better unless you stay on task,” he says pointedly.

Lance refocuses on summoning the weapon to his hand, but it remains stubbornly still in its spot on the floor. There must be some trick to that he’s not getting, something beyond staring down the bayard and silently demanding that it appears in his palm. Whatever the case, the weapon’s indifference means he has to cross the floor to retrieve it. It feels a bit like losing.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting there. But about the bayards—“

“I’m sure Allura could tell you what they’re made of.” The way Keith’s brows furrow after he speaks marrs his confident tone somewhat. He frowns. “Probably not in a way that we’d be able to understand, though.”

The bayard reforms into a sword once again and Lance grins. “You got that right.”

   
   
Lance thinks back to all the time he and Keith had spent training. Most of the time the sessions had devolved into competition — who could kill more training bots, who could take on the Gladiator’s higher levels, who could do more push-ups — but along the way something had shifted. Maybe two years fighting the Galra really had quelled their dumb rivalry, otherwise Lance was sure they’d still be at it. Besides, underneath the rivalry he actually  _like_ _s_ Keith, and as it turns out he isn’t a bad teacher in his own right. Their training together had become cathartic, and not just as exercise.

Keith shoulders his own weapon. “Ready to keep going?”

“You know it.”

“Hold still for a minute,” he commands, and Lance holds the position as Keith walks around him, observing. Keith prods at his left leg with the flat of his sword until he moves it to the correct position. 

“Your stance is getting better,” he says, moving back to his own side.

“It still feels weird to me.” Swordplay uses muscles Lance didn’t even know he had, and the first day they’d spent sparring he’d followed up on with a solid three hours of laying on the floor, groaning in pain. There was a lot of awkward arm-swinging and dodging that went into it, all of it completely foreign to him. He still has no idea how he pulled off his first moves with the sword back in the Castle of Lions – but now that he’s improved somewhat he won’t get knocked over so easily anymore. Allura drops in on their training sometimes just to test him herself.

Keith draws his sword again. “It’ll become muscle memory the more you practice. In battle you should fall into stance naturally.”

Lance has half a mind to repeat the words back to him in an asshole tone, but he drops the idea in favour of blocking the strike that comes flying towards him. He parries with the flat of his sword, knocking back Keith’s blade. They circle each other around the mat like lions, each one carefully focused on the others’ movements.   
   
   
“Hey, how are things going with Griffin? I saw him lay into you the other day. What’s his problem?” Lance asks, readying his sword. Keith rolls his eyes at the mention of the MFE squadron leader but doesn’t break his stance.

“He got all mad that we don’t use rank. Said that ‘Commander Shirogane’ is our superior and we should refer to him as such.” Keith sighs. He switches directions, sending both of them prowling opposite to the way they’d been before. “I think it freaks him out that we’re not technically Garrison military and don’t follow their rules. And if that actually bothered Shiro, he’d tell me.”

Lance nods his agreement, still watching carefully. Neither of them is liable to take a cheap shot at the other while they’re talking (not  _that_ cheap, he thinks) but he’s still ready for Keith to make his move soon – if not, he’s going to try and take a stab at it. “Guess even after four years he hasn’t chilled out.”

Keith makes a low, frustrated noise in his throat and pushes forward in another strike. His bayard meets Lance’s with a new surge in strength.

“He’s driving me up the wall. I think he still has the cadet rulebook stuck up his ass.” Keith’s form, though strong, falters slightly, and Lance is able to successfully block his strike.

Lance snorts. His distraction makes for an opening that Keith takes; he strikes again until the point of his bayard taps Lance’s chestplate. Lance surrenders, stepping out of the scuffle before dropping back into position.

“That was a pretty good block,” Keith says, business once again. “I think you just have to try not to get distracted.”

“Sorry. All I could think of was Griffin’s butt after what you said.” It’s a joke, but the way Keith raises an eyebrow at his words gives him pause. Lance stops altogether. “What?”

“I thought Kinkade was the one you were all over.” Keith says haltingly, head tilted. “Unless I missed something...?”

“What? No! Of course not!” Lance would probably be gesturing wildly if not for the deadly weapon in his hands. “It’s not like that at all.”

“Really? You guys are always off in the shooting range together. I kind of – sorry, I guess I assumed wrong.” He still doesn't look entirely convinced.

Lance shoots him a look. “You and I are doing the exact same thing but with swords. What’re you gonna assume about that?”

“Okay, but hear me out; I don’t  _like_ you like that.”

He wants so badly to throw his hands up in exasperation, but he’s guessing that would lead to a sword being impaled in the ceiling and an immortal ban from the training room in the span of approximately two minutes. Neither of those things are an ideal outcome for his evening, so he settles on another more potent Look.

“What makes you think Kinkade does?” he shoots back. For some reason the question sends his pulse into overdrive, which doesn’t make any sense because  _he_ certainly doesn’t like Kinkade that way. They’re rivals, for God’s sake; the only reason they see each other so often is because of the stupid shooting range and their stupid sniper partnership. Nothing more.

Keith looks like he’s going to respond before he stops, eyes focused on the open door to the training room. Lance follows his gaze and freezes at the sight of Kinkade himself, paused in the doorway with a file folder in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. The expression on his handsome face remains neutral.

He looks Lance up and down in the silence that follows. His eyebrows raise at the sight of his drawn bayard, ready and waiting to block a strike from Keith that doesn’t look like it’s coming. For a long moment no one says anything.

“So that’s why they call you Lance,” Kinkade says nonchalantly, and continues his path down the hall without elaboration.

Lance looks at his broadsword like it’s the first time he’s seen it before he whips his gaze back up to the now-empty doorway. “It’s a BROADSWORD!” he yells; indignant, but to no avail. Kinkade has effectively disappeared, leaving him to contend with Keith’s knowing look and the aftermath of whatever the hell just happened.

***

A drop off. 

   
That’s what Ryan is calling it for now. Like the ocean, only it’s actually whatever the hell is developing between him and McClain. They’ve finally reached something that resembles friendship but promises more, a beginning rooted in the dark premise that keeps them tangled together; steadfastness that lies just underneath the surface; waits carefully under casual words and careless remarks for the time being. Something unknown. Something else. Something  _mutual_.

Or maybe it’s not as deep as Ryan’s making things out to be. It’s him and McClain finding common ground, not the fucking Mariana Trench.

He fumes over this comparison while on a stakeout. Their perch in the seventh floor of an abandoned office building in downtown Seattle allows them a full view of the destruction below; rings of lost civilization surrounding a hulking Galra base, otherworldly in the otherwise familiar space. Even years of alien occupation hasn’t really settled the phrase ‘post-apocalyptic’ in his mind at the sight, but it’s admittedly the most accurate descriptor. The shelled buildings and littered streets spell that out clearly enough. Beyond them is what the map helpfully marked as Pier 57 but now looks more like land’s end, a beach stripped bare where the Pacific Ocean laps gently at the shore. The building, overlooking all of this, is cramped and cluttered with debris.

Their proximity allows Ryan a full view of McClain’s silhouette, a handsome profile of planes and angles in the moonlight, but they can’t afford distractions, so he focuses.

Feelings make things so much trickier. Ryan Kinkade is only human and has to contend with them as a result.

He doesn’t have the right words to explain what’s happened between them over the past two months. Months of him catching the dregs of a smile on his sort-of rival’s face, or finding his own gaze lingering on McClain’s endearing self. Or maybe it’s that once he does then things will become real; then he’ll be forced to acknowledge that they have found themselves moving past teammates and into friendship. Beyond that? He doesn’t even want to ask. Rejection isn’t worth it — that’s negativity he doesn’t need to carry in a line of work that already promises loss.

“This is the last Galra base in the States.” McClain’s whisper in the dark gently pulls him back into reality. “Where d’you think we go after this?”

He shrugs. McClain, eyes on the horizon, won’t see it. “Everywhere else,” he supplies.

McClain stays silent for a moment before returning to the conversation; “Kinda sucks that we only get to go to cool places after they’re destroyed, huh? I always wanted to go to the west coast. Surfing here used to be good, apparently.”

“I went to Tofino once,” he says, replying barely out of his own volition. “Before the Garrison. Surfing  _was_  good.”

He can’t see it, but the confused silence tells him that McClain’s eyebrows have shot up to his hairline. “Tofino?”

“Vancouver Island?” When that doesn’t trigger a response, he elaborates; “Canada?”

“Never been.”

“If it’s not Galra-occupied, you should go.” Ryan says.

He hears the smile in McClain’s response; “Maybe I will.”

Silence hangs over them a while longer before McClain speaks again; “You know, I think that’s the most you’ve said since we started working together.”

Ryan says nothing. He practically hears the eyeroll that follows.

“Okay, so  _now_  you’re gonna go back to being a brick wall. That’s cool. I thought for a second you’d developed emotions, but whatever.”

Ryan scoffs. “I’m not a robot.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve met robots that emote more.”

It’s hard to tell if he’s joking or not. He knows in theory what McClain has been through, and a few things said by the rest of the Paladins have reached his ears since they landed, but he can’t shake the lingering doubt that follows their words. Sometimes he wonders if they have a running canon of fake things they’ve gotten the MFE pilots to believe about what they’ve seen in space. He wouldn’t put it past them. If he were in their shoes maybe he’d even do it. Maybe he should compare notes with Ina, Nadia, and James.

Then a shot shatters the window, McClain screams in sudden agony, and the situation rapidly plunges into chaos.

Ryan instantly moves to scan the building across from them. The sniper sentry peers out from a window directly in his sight line and falls to one well-placed shot in its eyepiece.

“Ground team, we’ve been spotted.” When another scan relays the sentries changing position towards the two snipers, his blood runs cold.

A crackle in the comms. “We copy, Kinkade. About to engage.”

Another pained cry jolts him out of protocol’s automation. Ryan moves towards McClain with speed he didn’t know he had, pulls him back from the window and against the opposite wall in about four seconds flat.

The shot luckily missed his head, but left his shoulder to take the worst of it. Shards of shattered armour fall to the floor with muted  _clinks_. Where the wound didn’t immediately cauterize bleeds sluggishly and paints a gruesome series of dark red lines down his white chestplate. Its proximity is visceral, horrible, real. Ryan bites down the rage and nausea rising up this throat. Fucking Galra and their superpowered alien weapons.

“McClain is incapacitated. Requesting evac immediately.” The sounds of fighting outside reach his ears, indicating that the rest of the team has moved into the fray.

“We’re a bit occupied, but I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Holt — yes, that was her name — replies, sounding strained. “What happened?”

“Sentry shot him in the shoulder.” Another choked gasp from McClain tightens the knot in his chest. “He’s okay for now, but—“

“Give us ten minutes,” Holt says, and Ryan watches the Green Lion dart out of the sky and into the Galra base.

“Hey,” Ryan says, pulling the blue helmet off and placing it on the floor next to them. “Stay with me, Lance.”

His face is paled, shiny with sweat in the moonlight. When the oppressive helmet is freed his eyelids flutter open. His pupils are shrunk almost down to pinpricks, but they do find Ryan’s face eventually. Despite the situation his mouth pulls into a pained smile.

“I can’t believe it took me getting shot to finally get us on a first-name basis,” he says weakly. Then Ryan applies pressure to the wound and he gasps again, agony twisting his fine features. “Fuck!”

“Sorry,” Ryan says, but doesn’t ease up. “Can’t have you bleeding out before Holt gets here.”

“Pidge won’t let me die,” he says around a grimace. “Neither will you, Mister Strong and Silent.”

That’s...

Huh.

Ryan almost forgets about stopping the bleeding until Lance shudders, riding pain’s aftershocks, and he remembers exactly where he is and what’s at stake. He presses down again, firmly, and ignores the choked, pained noises that his teammate makes.

“Besides, I’ve had worse,” Lance continues after a moment. His free hand finds where Ryan’s is clutching his shoulder and holds on, fingers twisting in the fabric of his gear. “I died once. Allura revived me. Isn’t that weird?” His voice takes on a slightly slurred tone.

Oh boy. Pain and delirium and Lance — what a hell of a combo.

“I also got blown up once. That time the Castle got taken. That wasn’t fun.” He frowns at the memory.

“Focus, Lance.” By now Ryan’s gloves are smeared with blood. They paint a grisly picture, an ending to a battle drawn in shades of red.

Then, behind them, a click and whirr that makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck; it’s a sound with unfair familiarity, an alien weapon he wishes he wasn’t so acquainted with. The gun’s charge buzzes against his ears like an agitated hive.

Lance’s bayard is drawn before Ryan can even react. The gun — not his sniper rifle or his sword, it’s a different weapon entirely — fires without hesitation and blasts the sentry against the wall to die. The hole in its chest from the shot spits angry purple sparks.

Ryan has no words aside from his fractured, internal query of  _h_ _ow the_   _hell_  —?

“Where’s that evac, Pidge?” Lance asks as he dematerializes the gun. “I’m shot up and the sentries know where we are.”

“Two minutes,” Holt says. Something on the horizon explodes. “We’re almost clear — just hold tight.”

That seems to satisfy him, and Lance settles back against the wall. Pain returns to him quickly and his hand tightens around Ryan’s.

“How’d you—?“ Ryan starts to ask, but Lance’s choked laugh cuts him off.

“Had to break even, Tall-Dark-and-Handsome,” he says. “Now we’re tied.”

Ridiculous. Even bleeding out he’s still keeping score. Maybe that’s just how they’ll do this. Maybe it’s how it will always be. A jab to his ego paired with... a dumb nickname? A corny joke?

Or was that flirting?

Ryan admits to himself that either way, it would be okay with him. But Christ, Lance, this is  _not the time_.

“What happened to our ‘first-name basis’?” he asks quietly. Light spills into the building to illuminate them.

In agony, in blinding light, in a mission gone wrong, Lance’s smile still makes his heart stutter.

“It’s still here,” he replies. “Ryan.”

In a life of last names and protocol, his name in Lance’s mouth sounds far more intimate than it has any right to. It tightens his throat, makes something warm in his chest bloom, makes heat rise to his face underneath his helmet. He could die right here, protecting Lance, and that would be probably okay, because he’s heard Lance say his name like that. He luckily doesn’t have to, because the Green Lion appears in the window to whisk them to safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ryan Kinkade was definitely *not* looking over his crush's file to find out more about him... that would be so weird...  
> Also do you ever write a fic and realize you've kind of accidentally written a pairing into the background? I feel like Keith and James developed their own tsundere relationship behind the scenes while I wasn't paying attention. Maybe that warrants a sequel idk man


	3. Part III + Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What follows, and a little more after that.

Lance seems to find himself taking harder hits than practically anyone; a habit he should probably try and break now that there isn’t an alien healing machine to fix him up on the fly. He never thought he’d miss the mildly-terrifying cryopods and yet here he is, nursing a hurt shoulder and lamenting that he got shot to anyone that’ll listen.

A Garrison doctor had treated the wound (“Superficial,” she’d declared matter-of-factly, after poking it with a medical instrument and making him yelp) and put him on a three-day watch before she’d sent him back out into the world. It’s already better but still tweaks out if he moves his shoulder too fast or at the wrong angle — not the worst injury he’s had to recover from. He can still pilot Red (thank God) and can still shoot, so that’s a win in his book. Better than getting caught in the tail-end of a crystal explosion, or taking a blast from a Galra fighter. All that’s left to do is heal the old-fashioned way, with plenty of complaining and physical therapy.

As soon as the hospital releases him he’s back in the shooting range. It’s part reassurance for him and part catharsis – being shot up isn’t going to do anyone any favours, and losing his touch while recovering would be even worse. So his intention is to go in and hit as many targets as he can as fast as he can. That’s what he does best, what he’s  _always_ done best. 

He’s halted, however, by a silhouette just inside the door. When he creeps forward to further investigate he’s treated to the sight of Kinkade, rifle raised towards the targets with intense concentration. His eyes slide from initial recognition to an appreciation for his form – his  _shooting_ form, darn it!

He stops outright to reflect on that thought.

Oh, hell. Who is he trying to kid, anyway? Things are already out in the open; he might as well face the music.

“Hey,” he calls, stepping over the threshold.

Kinkade startles at his approach and peers over his shoulder. The rifle lowers to his side without taking a shot. Six holes in the targets, three bulls-eyes.

“Not your best, huh?” Lance gestures to the spent targets.

“They let you go already?” he asks. He leans the gun on the wall and pivots to face him properly. Lance isn’t really sure what exactly is in the expression he’s sporting – something unreadable, bordering the line of concerned and nervous. It seems out of place on his stoic face. “It’s good to see you.”

“Hospital couldn’t keep me if it wanted to,” he jokes. He rolls the hurt shoulder twice and tries not to wince. “It’s no magic healing machine, but it’ll do.”

At that, Kinkade reveals the ghost of a smile. “Do I want to ask?”

“Nah. It’s not really interesting.” Lance moves closer, aligning himself so they stand face-to-face. If Kinkade wasn’t so distractingly tall their position would feel almost equal. He tries not to think about it. “Anyway, I’m glad I found you. I want to say thanks, and also apologize.”

He raises an eyebrow. “For?”

“Mainly for saving my ass in Seattle. I probably would’ve bled out if you hadn’t been there, and the world can’t handle losing this handsome face.” Lance has to tack on a joke, because the rest of this conversation is going to be painful. Might as well season his ego while he can.

If Kinkade finds the comment irritating, he doesn’t show it. “What’s the apology for?”

Lance sighs. Time to rip off the proverbial bandaid.

“When I was all messed up and in pain, well... I said some stuff that was probably weird for you to hear. I’m not going to deny it, but you should probably forget it so we can stay -- I don’t know, professional? Not awkward? We can drop it and go straight back to being rivals if that’s how you want it to be. I’m sorry if I crossed any lines.”

It’s not until he’s done speaking that he watches Kinkade’s eyes widen in proper ‘deer-in-headlights' fashion. It takes him a moment to gather his composure – who wouldn’t, after a truth bomb like that? -- but when he does it’s with an air of curiosity. He leans in slightly, like Lance is text on a page he’s studying.

“What do you mean, you won’t deny it?”

Heat colours Lance’s cheeks without hesitation. “That I like you, alright? Spare me the comments.”

There are no comments to follow. Lance finds his mouth immediately on Kinkade’s, locked in a sudden kiss, and his thoughts grind to a halt. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s thought about kissing Ryan Kinkade more than once since they got paired up together – as it turns out, none of that matters now. Not when Ryan moves to pull him closer by the waist, not when Lance wraps his arm around the back of Ryan’s neck, certainly not when the kiss breaks off into a series of lighter pecks that make excitement pool in his gut.

When they stop and take in the scope of what they’ve just done Ryan doesn’t let go. The deer-in-headlights expression is still there, though, and Lance takes solace in the fact that Ryan is just as bewildered by the chain of events as he is.

“Sorry, was that too much, or --?”

Before he can say anything further, Lance surges upwards to claim another kiss before speaking: “I have several questions you can answer later. Kiss me instead, Cupid.”

_Cupid_. When will he learn to chill with the dumb nicknames?

To his delight, Ryan complies. Lance has always hesitated to describe affection as  _sparks flying_  but that’s exactly how it feels, like the warmth between them exists as a tangible thing, especially with how it prickles across his skin and runs in his veins. Kissing him is like the thaw after a frost, like holding hands to a fire.

After everything else, it feels like release.

“This doesn’t change the score, by the way.” Ryan says after they break apart. “I still hit more sentries than you did back there.”

“I was shot! Doesn’t the one I took out while delirious with pain count as a bonus?”

“Nope.” The words are light, friendly. No actual threat of a rivalry behind them; the smile against his mouth spells that out clearly enough.

If that’s how this is going to be, he can roll with it.

***

Epilogue

Ryan puts down his rifle first, pulls off his helmet, and looks over the targets with pride. Ten perfect shots put all of his training on display, strung out in the shooting range like a garland. Each target has a hole straight through the centre; precisely aligned, properly executed.

“Ten,” he says. He looks over to Lance, whose bayard is already dematerializing. A perturbed look twists his handsome face, and a quick look towards his targets explain its origins pretty clearly.

Nine shots, ten targets.

“I win,” Ryan adds. He allows a note of smugness into his voice. With how competitive Lance is, he feels like he’s earned this.

Lance steps towards him, already shucking his helmet. His right hand forms a finger gun, which he moves to position precisely on the left side of Ryan’s chest.

“Pow!” He mimes a shot, putting effort into faking the finger gun’s recoil for effect. He doesn’t break eye contact, just raises an eyebrow and grins knowingly. “Oh, look at that. Ten shots for me too. Guess we’re tied.”

Ryan has Lance against his lips before he can say anything else. Lance is all too eager to reciprocate, leaning into the kiss and bringing his arms up to encircle Ryan’s waist. He has to tiptoe just slightly to properly align their embrace, a fact Ryan can’t stop finding stupidly sweet. His hands find their way to Lance’s face to cup his jaw.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says through the kiss.

Lance smiles against his mouth. “You say that like you don’t know me.”

“I do. Still ridiculous.” And he does – dating Lance for several weeks has opened him up to what was initially hidden away under bluster and bravado. He now knows that Lance is a cat person, that he sleeps through most movies, and that he can (and will) successfully complete his skincare routine while stumbling drunk. He also knows that Lance is head-over-heels for him – but anyone could infer that from watching him.

The affection is mutual. Lance just does things more externally than he does.

The targets switch out in a moment’s pause to reveal a line of twenty new targets. The holographic display flashes one word -- ‘continue?’ -- and then lights up a set of two buttons underneath. One green, one red.

“Rematch?” Ryan asks. His hand leaves Lance to hover over the green button.

Lance reaches out and guides his hand over to the red one.

“Let’s do something else instead,” he murmurs.

Ryan isn’t about to argue with that, and kisses him as the display goes black and the targets disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE REACH THE END
> 
> I had a blast writing this piece and it won't be the last ryance you'll see from me. Also I don't think I've EVER written something with such a fluffy end, and that's saying something considering the rest of my ao3.
> 
> You'll still be able to find me on tumblr under the handle babykeithsmullet (as always) but in the meantime I've made a fandom/vld-based twitter you can follow for fic updates and void-screaming as well! It's under the handle espressopidge and is multiship-friendly as well as discourse-free.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr:  
> babykeithsmullet (vld only) or ghibliins (main)


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